


Valentine's Day, 2013

by secretlyHipster



Category: Warcraft, World of Warcraft
Genre: Eating Disorder, F/M, Online Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretlyHipster/pseuds/secretlyHipster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It started with a click. </p><p>The rhythmic taptaptapping of keys, one letter at a time. Insert a smile, a blush—an impatient pause between responses. </p><p>The simple exchange of words and letters and notes and shapes and virtual smiles and flowers and baked goods means way too much.</p><p>The baked goods are fake, but what we have isn’t."</p><p>(About people playing WoW, not characters in the game.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valentine's Day, 2013

It started with a click. 

The rhythmic taptaptapping of keys, one letter at a time. Insert a smile, a blush—an impatient pause between responses. 

The simple exchange of words and letters and notes and shapes and virtual smiles and flowers and baked goods means way too much.

The baked goods are fake, but what we have isn’t.

.

Tapping turns to texting, and though you’re a thousand miles away, I feel your heartbeat against my cheek. 

I don’t know what you look like or vice versa. I’m toofattoouglytooscared for you to see me. The more we text, the less I eat, scared of you hating me. 112 is the magic number, when suddenly I might not be too grotesque. 

.

We don’t get along, my mom and I. 

Stuffed in a car with my bags, I’m shipped off to my Godparents. I like them, and my Godfather’s just had a hip replacement. I expect to be put to work, but I’m not.

I watch TV and text you until everyone’s sound asleep, warm and toasty between the sheets, then I tip-tap-tip-tap down the hall and Skype you until neither of us can keep our eyes open.

We count how many hours we can spend talking to each other until we have to hang up. 

.

It scares me when you walk at night.

We’re on the phone, and suddenly you tell me someone just died. 

(You heard a gunshot.)

I’m scared you’re next and I force back tears. 

I’m not clingy.

I’m not clingy.

I’m in love.

.

We talk about pictures sometimes.

The thought gives me panic attacks.

I realize eventually you’ll have to see me, so I end up sending you one. It’s bad. I’m fatuglygross, especially since my Godparents make me eat. 

Glasses and mousy brown hair travel a thousand miles and greet you with a nervous smile. 

I wait for my phone to buzz, for you to say you hate me and these last few weeks have been a waste of time.

I wait for my phone to buzz, and when it does…

“You’re beautiful.”

I know it’s a lie, but just that you said it means the world.

.  
My world is spinning. 

School has started again. I mooch off the Wi-Fi to Skype with you in the mornings before class. I slink away to a hallway no one goes to, and the days grow longer until I can call you in between seventh period and band practice.

It’s torture; staying two hours after school under the blazing Florida sun to truck around a saxophone on egg-frying asphalt…

Especially when they give me laps every time I’m caught texting you.

.

When I see your car for the first time, I almost vomit.

I’m so nervous. 

Your black baby flies past our designated meeting spot, and you wave, a goofy smile gleaming through your window tint. 

In an instant, you’ve turned around and you’re pulling up next to me. 

I run into your arms, and the smell of Old Spice satisfies the part of me that’s been empty since summer. 

.

 

The bench is too big for us.

We huddle together in the middle, holding hands because we’re both afraid to let go—afraid it’s a dream and we’re not actually together.

I look up at you and smile.

If it’s a dream, here’s to never waking up.

.

I blink and we’re in your hotel room. 

You’re trying to teach me how to play this game called Cribbage.

I suck at math.

The board is set aside, and we’re cuddled close under the quilt.

I close my eyes, your arms around my waist and my hands against your chest. 

I close my eyes, and there’s pressure on my lips.

I jump and pull away.

You apologize, but I shake my head and ask you to do it again.

I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and you’ll hate me.

You kiss me again and it’s just a light tap. 

You kiss me again, and I don’t want you to stop.

.

It’s the most painful thing in the world to watch grandpa die.

Grandma’s tears turn to my tears on your chest. 

I want to help her, but I can’t look at him without crying and she hasn’t left his side since he was diagnosed—or even since they were kids.

He lays on his deathbed and I sit in your car, tears smudging my glasses in some abandoned parking lot because you’re the only one who can see me cry.

.

You can’t find a place to live and I can’t go five minutes without arguing with my mom.

Your problem is more severe, but I know you’ll find somewhere because you never give up.

You can’t get a job and I can’t get an A in algebra. 

Your problem is more severe, but I know you’ll get one because you’re perfect in every way.

You’re running out of money, but we’ll never run out of love.

.

We’re in your new apartment, and some work needs to be done.

A cake is baking in the oven while we scrub the toilet and mop the floors. 

Spiders hide around every corner, and you’re there to rescue me every time.

There’s a bullet hole through the window, but the neighbors seem nice enough.

.

We sink into the leather couch as our teeth sink into fresh pancakes.

The TV plays reruns of Family Feud, and the dog begs at our feet.

I’m in heaven when you smile.

I can’t believe it all started with one click.

.

Happy Valentine's day, 2013.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a true story. Dear lord, am I glad this is a true story. Happy Valentine's day, everyone.  
> This my present to my baby, because memories last forever.


End file.
